


Treasure

by xorabbit



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bottom Elim Garak, First Time, Holodeck, M/M, PWP, Top Julian Bashir, Xeno, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24713059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xorabbit/pseuds/xorabbit
Summary: Julian brings Garak along to a different holodeck program. This time, Julian is a famous fictional treasure hunter. He is going to find more than he bargained for. See, Garak's acting a little odd...
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 31
Kudos: 159





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DHW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/gifts).



Julian Bashir felt very clever. To be fair, he usually did.

But in this particular case, under these particular circumstances, he felt especially clever indeed.

Not three weeks prior, Garak had intruded on his secret agent program with uncharacteristically violent results. Oddly enough, given the nature of the two men, Julian had been the violent one. Regardless of who, exactly, was to blame, it hadn’t set right with him.

—And he’d been short with Garak. Which seemed less important than the matter of the gun, except that it hadn’t really been to protect anyone or anything but his personal (and rather sensitive) ego. Garak was being a bit of a nuisance, perhaps, but Julian doubted he had meant any harm.

(Besides, if _he_ had heard from Quark that _Garak_ was playing a _doctor_ program, he’d have had a very similar inclination.)

It was natural curiosity from a man who found himself intrigued by other cultures. And that’s what they shared, wasn’t it? Insight into one another’s art and poetry? In fact, Garak might have found it a bit odd to have been barred from the experience. It was almost conspicuous Julian hadn’t invited him before.

The simple answer was, of course, these were _erotic_ programs. And for that, he really didn’t need an audience.

This time, Garak had an invitation. Julian could tell he was pleased; he hadn’t even made a crack about the misfortune he had endured the last time around.

And perhaps he was pleased because he hadn’t been invited to the secret agent problem. Not as such.

Considering Garak’s history—the brutality of the interrogations, the gruesome deaths, the guilt he’d expressed during the breakdown of the wire—Julian had thought it best to avoid a return to the same character. He wouldn’t want to belabor the point, but _Julian Bashir, Secret Agent_ was not really a “spy”. He was an adventure character, never intended to represent genuine espionage. Oh, he had thought about explaining to Garak that the author, Ian Fleming, really had been a spy. That the man had _chosen_ , either as a coping mechanism or as a personal joke, to write a “spy” as no spy had ever been. He’d even considered mentioning that there were authors who strove for a little realism—that “John le Carré” was really David John Moore Cornwell, and he too had worked in the secret service.

(“Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy”—how would he like that! Four for four!)

But really, there was a better answer: to show him, and explain to him, the concept of the adventure serial in fiction. Not just “adventure” in the abstract sense, but adventure as a genre—and the adventurer hero as a popular fantasy.

Garak had been quite fascinated by the order he’d received alongside the invite. A dual-pocketed safari shirt of cotton poplin. Shorts of wool cavalry twill. A jacket replicated hide—made to emulate goatskin, not a single goat harmed. An adventure bag in similarly bloodless cattle leather. But there at the bottom, somewhat alarmingly, a strap to hold a bullwhip to his belt, close at hand.

“You might want to lay out something similar for you,” Julian had advised him. “This program is quite different than the last one. No ballrooms, no penthouses, and no decadent casinos. More… wild dangers.”

That had left Garak a lot to think about. Specifically, wild dangers, a whip, and very short pants.

He’d sewn the order, as instructed. For his own accoutrement, he drew up a similar outfit, but he selected more conservative cuts—including full-length trousers. He was many things, but not an exhibitionist. Julian’s shorts were borderline indecent, and he made them gladly.

Now that they were in the program, Garak finally understood. Or, was beginning to understand.

And certainly, it was a far cry from the secret agent program. Not that he was complaining. (Which was new, for Garak, who was, overall, quite fond of complaining and considered it a healthy habit.)

The air was humid, sticky. He could see sweat developing on Julian’s arms, on his brow. It made his skin look vibrant and vibrantly alive. The smell rolled off of him, pungent and vital. The Cardassian was grateful for the excuse of exertion; his mouth hung open, taking in the scent.

The leaves above them created a thick canopy. Everything beneath was pleasantly shaded. To Garak’s eyes, it was a tremendous relief from the unceasing glare of the station. Even his substandard ears could hear the thrum of life. So much less _sterile_ than the seats of high-rollers.

Their feet sloshed through the standing water of the wetlands. Admittedly, Garak had not foreseen a swamp. On Cardassia, well. On Cardassia, he’d have been warned.

“These ‘adventure serials’ often took the lead to far-flung locations,” Julian explained. “At least, ah… locations that seemed ‘exotic’ to the authors. There’s a complicated legacy there, admittedly. But for the most part, inhospitable locales. Jungles. Deserts. Bogs.”

“To… survey? For resources?” Garak wondered. He had accompanied one or two surveying expeditions, in his time.

“Well, in _reality_ , yes, sometimes. In a story like this, that would… set the hero on a bit more of a protracted mission than we’re in for today. Adventure, at least in this context, mean… _action._ Fast action. Conflicts with predators, unwelcoming… uh, justifiably unwelcoming indigenous persons, rockfalls, booby traps, _rival_ treasure seekers….”

Garak glanced around. “Treasure? _Treasure_ seekers? Here?”

There seemed to be any number of insects. Plants were in abundance. Tiny fish swam in the deeper sections around them. He could swear he’d even spotted a fellow reptile or two. But certainly not any _treasure._ Perhaps the makings of a raw dye. Something slow enough to snatch and eat.

The main treasure he had spotted, Garak thought, was precisely what he’d brought. Or, to be more precise, what had brought him.

Julian laughed. It really was a delight. “Well, yes. See, on Earth, many civilizations… ah, we say ‘rose’ and ‘fell’, though that’s really not fair either. Some civilizations created cities or tombs or temples, and then later abandoned them. Sometimes, but not always, they left valuable objects behind. Sometimes just valuable _because_ they were left behind by a people from long ago.”

“Ah. See, that _is_ familiar. Yes, as on the Cardassian homeworld, when we uncovered Hebetian ruins. We recovered artifacts, made museums. Many of these ‘treasures’ ultimately had to be sold, I’m afraid…. No art is worth the lives of hungry people; the State has an obligation. But I’ve seen a number of Hebetian artifacts, yes. Lovely things. Absolutely lovely.”

“Mm.” It was a nice sound. “So my job, as an adventurer, is to seek out these ancient ruins, find the treasures inside, and bring them back to museums where they can be studied and admired,” he clarified. “Does that make sense to you?”

“It does. Except, you, alone? No team? And where is your excavation equipment? Don’t you need to carefully log exactly what you’re found and where?”

The human looked sheepish. “Well, in reality, yes. But this is a fantasy. It’s only my job to find them. And as it happens, anything I do find will fit neatly in this pack,” he said, giving the satchel a loving smack. “There will only be a small handful of things, usually just one. It’ll be conspicuous. That’s the ‘prize.’”

Garak nodded. “A well-defined goal. You seek an object, you seize it, you pass it from obscurity into the public trust.”

Julian beamed. “Precisely.”

“Is it always so… warm?”

That smile wasn’t going anywhere. “I thought you might like that.”

Garak tugged on his collar casually. “Oh, I do….”

Julian turned back towards their path—a game trail that he knew, from prior experience in the program, was setting them in the right direction. He had a ‘treasure map’ in his pouch, as well, but it had only been necessary the first three or four playthroughs. “It’s a tropical swamp. Humans often had relative difficulty settling in tropical swamps. But they’re just marvelous, aren’t they? So lush, so _green…_. The ones we managed to save are biodiversity hotspots on Earth. You’ll find hundreds of thousands of species you won’t find anywhere else.”

There were privileges in taking up the rear. The sight of Julian’s shapely back, and backside, were only the beginning. But, Garak had to admit, his current favorites. He found his gaze lingering. “Ah… they’re important on Cardassia, also.”

“Oh! I thought it was all desert.”

“More desert than Earth. But we have… special places.” His voice became a little dreamier. “Are they always this… clean? On Earth? The water is so… remarkably clear. No… decay.”

Julian wiped the back of his neck with his hand. “Ah, well, no, not exactly. It’s a bit romanticized. It’s meant to look a bit like the… like the illustrations, and the ‘films’ of that period. So you won’t be finding a half-rotted tapir anywhere. But, instead, shining beetles, brightly-colored birds, quite a surfeit of flowers.” To prove his point, he reached over to a nearby tree trunk and plucked off a trail of blossoms from small epiphyte. He handed them to Garak and resumed walking.

Garak tickled the bottom of his nose with the strand of flowers to get a better profile of its scent. “Ah… very appealing.”

“I hoped you’d think so.” And he’d asked Felix to double up on flowers. Whether or not Garak had ever truly been a gardener, he certainly had a penchant for things that bloomed. And Julian _had_ been feeling clever.

“So tell me, Doctor…. Mm, should I still call you Doctor?”

“Actually,” Julian replied with sincere satisfaction, “I am a doctor in this program, yes. A doctor of archaeology, which would make me quite a tosser to insist on the title. So how about ‘Julian’?”

“ _Julian_.” Garak stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes seemed to lose their focus, if only briefly. When he regained the clarity of his vision, he gazed upwards, to the great canopy, then back again to each side. “Hmm.” He stared at his feet, which were in perhaps half a meter of water. “Julian, can you hold still for just a moment?”

Julian, who was halfway through bending a branch from their path, made an about-face. “Sorry, is something the matter? There shouldn’t, ah, be any active hazards at this stage. We only got started. If you see an alligator, they’re all just ornamental. They don’t trigger; it’s not part of the program.”

“Oh, no. No, nothing of the sort. Only I think, this is such an… _interesting_ story. Premise. Interesting premise. I would hate to derail it or otherwise frustrate the experience. Why don’t we take a moment for you to… better explain it to me.”

“What, here? In the jungle?”

“Yes, it’s very pleasant, isn’t it? The water. And the… and the heat. Remarkable habitat. So there’s no rush at all, is there, if we delay—only for a moment, of course—so you can tell me a bit more about your character? About the setting? Even about Earth, wherever it applies? You’ve been doing such a marvelous job. Your voice, it is…. I like,” he paused, “the sound.”

“Certainly. No trouble.” He rolled the notion over in his head. “Should have given a dossier before we started. I just, well. I admit, I didn’t think you would be this interested. The character and all. I admit, it’s rather silly. I was rather expecting to be dodging as many barbs from you as I did from the tribe.”

“Not silly, no,” Garak reassured him smoothly. “And goodness, a hostile tribe? You should certainly tell me more before we get that far. I would never want to offend them.”

He held up a finger. “Oh! Oh, we won’t hurt the tribe. This kind of story is troublesome enough—”

“But that terrible whip, Julian…?”

The doctor looked down at his belt. “This? Oh! That’s more for, you know… snatching things and swinging around. Using it on a person, no. I wouldn’t include anything like that. It’s just part of the, you know, of the image. … Garak, you’re really all right with just… listening to me blather? While we’re all standing around in the muck?”

Garak smiled placidly. “Such a good point. The water is warm here, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I'm just separating out my adult work to this account.]


	2. Chapter 2

Julian had found a good-sized stump to perch on, his tawny legs hanging down like the roots of a mangrove. He brushed his arms instinctively, though he had certainly not requested the inclusion of realistic mosquitoes or biting flies. Still, he had been to swamps—real swamps—on Earth and knew the aggression of its smallest participants.

He scooted slightly to the side, thinking it might give Garak some room. He certainly wasn’t opposed to close quarters, perhaps even getting a little more experience with Garak’s scaly skin. Unlike Garak’s usual wear, thick and blocky, he had gone for the same materials that Julian had requested. He could see details that no other outfit had ever afforded.

… He could see, at the small of Garak’s back, highly-keeled scales tenting from below the fabric. Julian fought a deeply-set impulse to run his fingers over them like a washboard. Alas, he intended to keep his fingers.

But Garak made another choice entirely. He stepped over to a spot right at the interface of wet and dry, precisely where water lilies transitioned to reeds, and began combing the greenery.

“Come now, Doctor. Keep talking, if you please.”

Julian smirked. “Adventure serials were a significant genre in the 1940s. About a decade after Stardate -382548.035 or so, if that’s more familiar. They were films, comics, radio programs…. They weren’t the first—popular books like _King Solomon’s Mines_ date back to the late 1800s—but they began to become merchandising vehicles in their own right. Larger than life, you might say.” He looked down at his exceptionally damp feet. He wasn’t sure if this was the part people remembered: the awful feel of wet wool socks. Period appropriate, and soggy.

“Mm.” Garak continued carding the vines and rushes, finally making himself a notch, a trough, at the verge.

“—Garak. What are you making, exactly? Some kind of… blind?”

Rather than answer, Garak lowered himself into the standing water. It was nothing too deep—nothing more than halfway up a grown man’s shins. He then backed himself into the small valley he had made, wriggling into place. His legs were still in relatively open water, among the helophytes and duckweeds, and entirely submerged. His torso hadn’t fared much better. His back was still underwater, albeit supported by the silt and sand. Only his front and his head were truly above water.

Julian couldn’t help but stare, and assumed, rather fairly, he was meant to. “Is that comfortable? Garak, you’ve gotten yourself terribly wet!” And much, much dirtier than Julian assumed he could tolerate, although he didn’t mention that part.

“It is,” he thrummed. “Cardassians are very fond of the water. Now, Julian, you were saying…?” He closed his eyes and set his hands up on his stomach, looking remarkably self-satisfied.

Julian thought he looked very much the crocodile, lounging on the riverbank. It was only to see if _this_ one would trigger. “This particular character actually comes from a revival of the genre by a filmmaker who had first made his mark with, well, another revival of a different type of adventure serial. He had directed a series—well, actually only the first of the three films, but I suppose that’s a detail—that was, well, set in ‘outer space’. Recall, at the time, humanity had done no better than reach our planet’s moon. And we hadn’t colonized it,” he continued, trying to sound unruffled. “By the 1980s, that filmmaker had enough clout to bring the sort of stories he remembered from when he was a young man, stories about heroic treasure seekers like the fictional Alan Quartermain. That’s where this character comes from, though he used one of the same main actors from his previous series. Kind of funny, that. Same kind of fellow: clever, intrepid, a little roguish….”

That set off a shudder. “Mm.”

“Yes, and at the time, they contained just… wonderful feats of imagination. They combined larger-than-life settings with astonishing goals. Even a bit of the supernatural. You see, in the first film, he’s seeking a religious relic: something that would… completely redefine Earth’s relationship with one of its most influential world religions. Several of them, actually.” He considered his shoes again, his damp feet. He thought of how wrinkled they would surely be, the very conditions that, long-weathered, resulted in trenchfoot. A grotesque concept. Julian brought one foot up, and then the other, to unshod himself. He placed the shoes next to him on the stump. The socks went with them. He stretched his feet and absentmindedly massaged them with his hands. “However, enemies seek the same item. It’s implied that he seeks them for scientific purposes, to do good in the world…. Meanwhile, his rivals are as bad as the world’s ever known.”

Garak bore a soft, unconcerned smile. He opened one eye, just slightly, to observe Julian’s removal of his shoes. He discreetly did the same, though he was able to pry each off with nothing more than the use of the opposite foot. (He seemed quite disinclined to rise, given the quality of his nesting.)

“Right, and they’re—” He stopped. He’d never exactly seen Garak’s feet before. Now, naked as they were, they remained cruelly obscured by vegetation. There was only a little to be made out, here and there. He endeavored not to stare, which, for him, meant going bug-eyed in a different direction, striving to make good on what existed of his peripheral vision. Still, he’d wondered—wondered for years, really. And there they were. And he couldn’t _see_ them. Even in the infirmary, he’d always had the benefit of sickbay slippers and socks. It was enough to drive a man to distraction.

He almost expected Garak to make a cutting remark about his stuttering off. But Garak said nothing at all. The most he gave was a pleased little grunt with a reorientation of his shoulder on the mat of vegetation.

The doctor coughed. “A-and they’re ultimately stopped by their greed and their hate. Ah, actually, not much work by the hero, strangely enough. But he witnesses the power of the artifact, realizes what it means. And when he passes it to his government—Earth wasn’t a united political entity at that time—they lock it away. It was, ah, funny, at the time. A little sad, too.” He rubbed his arms. They were a little sweaty. A part of his brain reflected on whether the water wasn’t the better place to be. It really was unnaturally pristine. “Reminds me of the Bajoran orbs, actually. So maybe _that_ artifact was supernatural, by the understanding of the time, but no more inexplicable than some artifacts that do exist that humanity wasn’t aware of at the time.”

Garak began to produce a low, rumbling sound. Not a snore. He smiled at too many of the right moments. And here and there, a flash of incisive blue eyes. He released one long, thin whine, and undid the first two buttons of his shirt. There seemed to be something troubling him in his hips as well, though those buttons remained steadfastly in place.

Julian didn’t bother to look away, didn’t bother to pretend to. There was far too much to… take in. Garak’s clothes—including the cotton shirt, so much _thinner_ than his usual raiment—clung to his skin. Just a little transparent.

Certainly, Julian had taken part in his share of ‘wet T-shirt’ competitions (a historical practice that had never entirely died out). This felt like the first he truly feared he might lose.

Every time he moved or stretched, Garak’s scales tugged at the weave. Julian could see that he had no nipples, no immediately discernable belly-button. However, he did have quite a bit in the way of muscle mass, however well-padded. He could observe the groupings coil and uncoil as he slowly writhed in place. Mud was beginning to cake into his clothing. Julian had never seen him so filthy. And, correspondingly, he found himself developing something of a human tightness in his very short shorts.

He could even see the larger ‘spoon’ at the top of his sternum, lining a dip in his collar. Garak didn’t show it often. Julian hadn’t the faintest idea what it would mean to interact with that specific flesh, but he had found himself, once or twice, imagining.

Fucking Garak had never exactly been _off_ his radar. It just felt like something that… was very easy to put on pause. Julian had the inkling it would be challenging, and once it was done, it would indeed change things moving forward. Change things in a way that bedding whatever petty officers stopped over on Deep Space 9 never did.

At the moment, he was re-evaluating just how difficult it might be, particularly in light of how Garak had begun to orient his legs. The wool was a little more resistant to speaking secrets, but even that was hinting at a very alluring row of ridges.

“A lot of… mysticism. And always a mystery to it, what it means,” he said, trying to buy himself the time. But he drank it in, the strange sight. Undulating gray skin beneath tight, wet cloth. A man who, far from his usual cutting retorts, was oddly quiet beyond his primitive grunts and rumbles.

That was it. He got up and walked over to Garak, his legs straddling the repose man like the Colossus. “Garak, why do I get the impression you’re not really listening?”

Garak flashed his teeth. Somehow, without words, Julian knew exactly what it meant: _Doctor, why do I get the impression **you’re** not really listening?_

Perhaps it wasn’t a great idea. Julian Bashir had many good ideas—he was a genius, he was told, and told others—but he had one or two which were a little off the mark. Particularly where this type of thing was involved.

Standing over Garak was absolutely not the right perspective to be making a determination this important.

Garak, Julian often reminded himself, was a dangerous and enigmatic man, and too clever by a half. He was stronger than he looked, more serious than he let on, and usually ten steps ahead. It was very possible that in a genuine struggle, Julian would not come out ahead. If Worf, for example, hadn’t been so quick to the draw, the two of them would be nothing more than smoking piles of ash. That was the kind of decision that Garak would make.

Certainly, he’d shot Garak in the neck, once, and that had tamped him down for a little while. But that, Julian knew, had been by _choice._ And, beyond that, if Garak had the full range of options at that time, he sounded just as eager to take to his knees.

This was a step further, primal thing. His gray fingers tangled in the stems and fronds, allowing him to pull and stretch. He did it like a challenge; there was no mistake to the arc of his back.

Wet, filthy, and warm.

… Warm? Hot. Was it hot? It was feeling _hot._

And there was no mistaking what was happening. If upper-Julian was conflicted, lower-Julian certainly wasn’t. And was quite ready to make the announcement.

If you really do this, Julian told himself—

Garak teased a finger along the waist of his trousers.

Julian had an almost agonizing hard-on, and there, below him, repose, was advertisement for an unrestricted orifice. There was only one way this had ever gone.

Oh, bollocks. He already had his shoes off anyway.

He sloughed off his pack and unfastened his belt. He tossed both of them aside, whip included. The _O’Lampopo_ people could keep their fertility idol. Julian didn’t exactly need it.

He put his hands on his hips and glared down, daringly.

 _That_ earned him a toothy grin. Crocodile indeed. Garak began unfastening a few more buttons, permitting another tantalizing glimpse of flesh that lived hidden.

“ _This,_ ” he said teasingly, “Is another well-known aspect of the character. So unless you want to play a different game, you had better say something.”

And Garak remained as mute as Julian had ever seen him. Which didn’t at all mean he was uncommunicative. But why risk confusing a message that was coming through quite clear?


	3. Chapter 3

One upward tilt of Garak’s hips was all it took. Julian was down on his knees in an instant, water be damned. He peeled off his shirt with practiced speed, bundled it into a ball, and tossed off to the side with a dull splash.

“How about that, then?” he asked smugly. “You started, and I still finished first.”

Garak only looked off to the side in amusement. At first, he didn’t move. Then, he slowly, playfully, stretched out his arms above his head.

“I hope,” Julian said, grabbing a sleeve, “You don’t expect me to do _everything._ ” (Although, he had to admit, he found himself not entire unwilling to do the vast majority.)

His response was a low rumble, an animalistic murmur that seemed to issue from his bones. And it was loud, like the lowest notes on a church’s pipe organ. The water around them rippled and danced, throwing droplets up above the surface. It lasted only for a few seconds, then halted, then repeated again. Julian could feel the vibrations traveling through the water. They spoke to something in his thighs.

He shook his head as if in reproof, staring at Garak from his position kneeling between his casually split legs. “Ooooh, you are—you play a very _wicked_ game, Garak.” He reached over Garak’s body, seized both sleeves, and pulled firmly. The shirt peeled off of Garak like one perfectly shed snakeskin.

Garak, in turn, put his palms on his chest, as if mildly scandalized. As if his gray hands, covering gray flesh, meant really anything at all.

(And as if _he_ hadn’t been the one to start setting buttons loose.)

Julian’s nose crinkled. “So that’s how you’re playing it, are you?” He quickly folded the muddied shirt and set it aside. “ _Don’t worry,_ ” he whispered sarcastically. “I’ll be _gentle_.” He ended on a pleasant chuckle and took back to sitting on his heels. The water was warm enough to bother not even his most sensitive regions.

For the time being, dark eyes _admired._ They really did. Oh, he had seen Cardassian skin, once or twice, even that which Garak didn’t show. Anatomical sketches. Casualties of war. But it did make a difference, that it was Garak’s. He was so bewitchingly… robust. The line of thick scales from his neck continued down his arms. Besides a few notches and one or two missing members, they formed a lovely map.

His belly was a little lighter—countershading was not rare, even among alien species—with the suggestion of a transition to a more leaden color as wrapped around to his back (a back which was still pressed below the waterline). There were scales everywhere, but they split off from distinct ridges that traced the major contours of his body. Julian was awestruck—struck as dumb as Garak. His eyes absorbed every detail in amazement.

Julian even felt a little self-conscious. He considered himself a perfectly handsome member of his species, but did lack something of the same ornamentation.

Garak’s expression, however, indicated that he felt differently. He licked his lips, shamelessly scouring Julian’s chest with his gaze. He seemed somewhat amused by Julian’s admittedly sparse chest hair, and they’d probably have the “nipple” conversation sooner or later. However, having gotten his enjoyment, at least for the moment, he tilted his head back and groaned softly.

That sent a jolt to Julian’s cock.

He and Garak had toyed with one another for years, but suddenly there was no time to waste.

Julian reached down, first to his own shorts, and freed the buttons. Even that much was relief, and he could hear himself pant just a little differently. “You bloody…,” he gasped. “Ngh.”

Garak just doodled empty circles on his chest with a light touch, as if wheedling away the time until Julian could ready himself. He had taken off his shoes, after all, and his socks. He had helped a little with the shirt. Certainly, Julian could be entrusted with the rest. And he, Garak, would wait.

(Julian would be happier, having worked for it.)

Julian abruptly stripped off his shorts. He tore off the boxers with them. That accomplished, he put one hand around himself, providing him at least some tactile feedback—even if it was only the skinship of lonely nights. He gave it a few slow strokes, puffing under his breath.

His other hand was placed on Garak’s still-clothed thigh, as if for balance. (Ironic, considering that what had him so unbalanced was right between those thighs.) “Pants?” he managed. “Your trousers.”

Garak made a pleasant rattling noise from somewhere in the back of his throat.

Julian rolled his eyes. “Really… lazy thing. You’re…,” he managed, “absolutely rotten.”

Ah, and there were the puppy eyes.

“Unbelievable.”

Garak smirked, and, in a rare gesture of acquiescence, popped the top button of his trousers himself. As a small note of emphasis, he scooted a few inches in Julian’s direction, underscoring the contact.

Julian wasn’t sure his face had ever been redder. He could feel sweat begin to prickle all the way down his neck. He grabbed Garak’s waistband with both hands. “You know, this program usually has booby traps. Nothing like that in here, I hope?”

Garak shrugged innocently. (The bastard.)

A shake of the head and Julian damn near ripped the pants off. And Garak did cast one critical look at the decision, seeing as just how carefully those seams had been sewn. (And somewhat concerned about walking back to his quarters with various parts of his anatomy on public display.)

In the process, Julian also had his first chance to catch one of Garak’s feet. He chose the left. “Ah, mm. Bloody hell, Garak. Look at these _claws._ ” He held it up near his face with one hand, the other having returned to his penis. It would have been enough for him, just to admire that foot and bring himself to completion manually. However, he assumed Garak—particularly at this stage of undress—might object.

“Just slightly curved. _So_ very well kept,” he panted. “Flex them for me, will you?”

Garak frowned just slightly, but did as instructed. In order to clarify his position on matters, one of his own hands began to slide between his legs, as if to serve as a reminder of the actual task at hand.

“I’m getting there! Just… these, goodness.” He kissed the sole of Garak’s foot. “Just beautiful.” He kissed them again, running along the bottom with his tongue.

Garak yanked the foot from Julian’s grip and slammed it back underwater with a tremendous splash. Julian sputtered and wiped pond water from his face and hair. “Yes, yes, I’m getting there!”

Especially now that he had a direct line-of-sight to what “there” was.

Which… did not seem to be much. Yet.

“It is there, isn’t it?” Julian asked. His brow furrowed, and the minutest hint of concern sent a wave of confused panic to his eager cock. “Garak, i-if this is a bloody prank, I’ll wring your neck, I swear—”

Garak was polite enough to shake his head. One finger tapped the top of a subtle alignment of scales. It even pressed in, just enough to indicate that this particular flesh was designed to split, and then withdrew.

Thank goodness, Julian thought. He wouldn’t put anything past Garak. Though he was quite willing to put something _in_ him.

“Tell me if I’m off,” he said, although, at this point, he wasn’t sure Garak was going to say much of anything. He chalked it up to one more Cardassian game, although he wouldn’t have put it past Garak to be uniquely troublesome. At this point, Garak could have been squeaking like a pogo stick and wearing a jester’s hat, and Julian still intended to fuck him within an inch of his life.

He slipped one finger inside, then two, and was treated to another deep rumble for his effort. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [continued]


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [continued]

The doctor’s fingers were long and dexterous and very sensitive, and it was immediately upon insertion that he realized he had, perhaps, doomed himself.

He exhaled with a shiver. “B-blast it, if you’d ever told me _that’s_ what—mnhh.” He licked his lips and crooked his fingers. He ran the tips along the inside, feeling the pebbly texture.

Garak blinked innocently and gave one squeeze.

“F-fuck,” Julian piped. He hadn’t made a higher note since his voice cracked in eighth grade. His partner had mercilessly chosen to reveal another trick up his sleeve (if that’s what one wanted to call it): embedded rings of cartilage over which he had masterful control.

Julian wanted to weep. He mourned, for a moment, every night since they’d met. Every single night he hadn’t known that there was treasure right under his nose. If he fucked him every day for the next fifty years, he’d still regret it hadn’t been fifty-four.

He tried to maintain the firm, coaxing motion of his fingers, but it was difficult to concentrate on preparation. Hell, he was still firmly in the “exploration” phase.

Speaking of. There seemed to be a knob somewhere inside. A bit of a bump, and—yes. So he did. Currently tucked away, somewhat to a mammal’s envy. That part was not so surprising; Julian had seen a number of those in his time. Not even Bajoran men let it _all_ hang out. That was something of a human condition.

“I’m going to be able to get that out, right? Without hurting you?” he asked.

Garak answered with a brief nod. As close to talkative as he’d been. But Julian appreciated the clarity.

He grinned. “Glad to hear it.”

(Julian allowed Garak his secrets, but _that_ one he very much wanted brought to light.)

He leaned in, pushing a little further. There were two channels, but one would be the more obvious. Another p-u-l-l from Garak suggested he was headed the right direction. Heavens above—he felt like his fingers were being _milked._

It was utterly and wholly unfair. Despicable. Cardassians could have won the war if only they’d realized the right tactics.

Heavens above, and he was _wet._ Sopping. Half of Julian’s arm was underwater and he couldn’t tell the slightest difference. The ease was downright cruel.

“Elim—”

Garak wiped his lips with a free hand, almost laughing. He opened his eyes wide, his pupils momentarily blown before they tightened to pinpricks. All that at the sight of Julian’s stiff cock. He raised a scaled brow.

Those damned lips.

“E- ** _lim_** ,” he said more sternly. “Do I _need_ to lure that out first, are _you_ going to do it, or have I got the _go-ahead_ as we are, because you’re slick enough that I could bloody _fall_ _in_. And I think I’ve got the space.”

(The one time he couldn’t get the man to talk. Unreal.)

Garak actually _did_ laugh—just a chuckle, and then hoisted himself on his elbows to force the angle. And another tight squeeze, for good measure.

That was certainly answer enough.

Julian removed his fingers and said a brief prayer to whatever force it was—ideally not the wormhole aliens—that had blessed this particular day and placed him at this exact moment—with this exact penis—at this exact hole.

He brought his thumbs to both sides, taking one last appraising glance at the purplish flesh. One—two—three—

He eased himself in, carefully. There was still a part of him that expected the unexpected, where Mr. Garak was concerned, and he was still a tad wary of being forced to confront that idea dick-first.

But there were rewards.

“F-f-fuuuck,” he nearly cried. He could feel it at the corners of his eyes. “A-ah, oh. O-oh! Nngh.”

He himself was decently well-endowed, but resistance did not seem to be a problem. Not with what felt like another hand tugging him further in, directing his advance. And goodness, he wished he’d known the recipe for _Cardassian Natural Lubricant #1_ when he was a self-abusing teen. The word that came to mind was “silken”.

A trail of sweat made its way down his forehead. “Y-you… damn. Elim, I’m in, that’s as far as I go. That’s as far as I g-g-hoh.”

It was possible Garak wasn’t really listening. He’d thrown himself back with a splash and a thud. His thighs strained. He made a horrific growl—something Julian would normally associate with danger in this program.

(Perhaps he still ought.)

Suddenly, he could feel Garak’s penis begin to wriggle and slide around his, like the tail of a thrashing eel.

“I—I’ve got to move. I’ve got to. Elim. I’ve got to,” he mumbled, nearly a mantra. It was intended as forewarning, but an augment’s brain could calculate outcomes very quickly, and there was very little reason to wait. He began slamming himself in with a steady rhythm.

He knew Garak had far inferior hearing, but there was no way it wasn’t a din for them both. The slapping of mud, skin, water, scales, juices—nothing was uninvolved. And their _voices._ Julian grunted, moaned, and panted, but Garak was the one who really seemed to run the gamut.

That, Julian thought dimly, was the whole menagerie.

“He—huh. He— _huh_. B-b-beh—” All right. So he wasn’t precisely at his most eloquent. “Nn-huhn. _Huft!_ ”

Stars above, the way it _grasped_ , the way **it** _writhed_. And on someone sturdy enough to take it rough.

Julian quickened his pace. He brought his hands to Garak’s shoulders and squeezed, which earned him a proper roar.

It only got him harder.

Soon, the very tip of Garak’s penis began to peek out from around the top of the ingress. It seemed to be searching for something, like the arm of a peckish octopus.

\--And, Julian noted, between thrusts, it was rather a lovely thing, in its way. A soft grayish-lavender with one… oh, goodness. What appeared to be a blue racing stripe.

Cardassians and their _blue._ That’s where it was.

He brought a hand down to Garak’s penis and worked it between his fingers. It looped and squirmed like a thing caught. But it seemed very happy to be caught, by the sense of it.

“This is you, is it?” Julian managed. “Oh, Elim, it’s so _delicate._ It—h’hhuh—it feels s-so _soft._ ”

Garak clamped his teeth tight with an audible snap. The shudder that coursed through his body emerged as thunder.

It traveled up Julian’s spine. Good grief. A thing like that was _electric._

All the worse when Garak punctuated his retort with a quick flip, using the muscles behind those fabulous rings to provide extra _resistance._ Enough to throw off the whole affair, if only for the enjoyment of feeling it resume, animatedly searching for its former rhythm.

“H-i-if that’s how you want to—” Julian took a hand and scraped down Garak’s collar, raking his nails across the divot of the lower spoon.

Another rumble. This _was_ fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0IWbqjinTUE


	5. Chapter 5

Julian didn’t know if the rationale was preference or politeness. Perhaps it was professional courtesy for Rom, another customer-facing member of the Promenade’s small business association, and the station-wide awareness that he was assigned to cleanup. The holodeck would recall the mud, the water, and the smattering of duckweed, but it would leave the cum. That they’d brought in with them, technically. (There was no helping the slime.)

But it certainly couldn’t be discretion. Garak’s hair was far too mussed for that. It dawned on Julian that their little exploit couldn’t have been planned. Garak would have brought a comb.

Still, it tingled (damn! No! He wasn’t ready again, not yet, thank-you-very-much!) to see his semen seeping from Garak’s slit. Knowing that was precisely what Garak had _intended._ Cried for. Practically demanded.

No, that had nothing to do with Rom and nothing to do with tidiness. What he’d just seen was not the _tidy_ Garak.

… Or the polite Garak, depending on he chose to interpret a smattering of bites. He had tried to even the number, but Garak’s scales were rather too tough, and he refrained on account of his teeth. It wouldn’t do to chip the doctor’s winning smile. (Oh well—as a tennis player might say, fourteen-love!)

“Come here,” Garak said, taking Julian’s face with both hands.

“Oh, _now_ you can talk? Wasn’t sure if you’d decided I was a mind-reader, bloody Betazoid or—”

Garak brought him close and rubbed the ridge of his nose against Julian’s jaw. He then turned his face and did the same with the scales that capped his chin.

Julian laughed. “Haven’t you done enough of that?”

“How about this?” He licked the edge of Julian’s mouth.

“That too. Your tongue is bloody abrasive. I won’t need to shave for a week,” Julian replied, tilting away slightly. “I’m sorry, Garak. Human skin, not quite on the level of dermal armor. But give me a few minutes with the regenerator, and you have permission to grind me up all over again. I must look like I’ve been stampeded by a pack of Andorian sandgrouse.”

Garak looked admonished, though Julian wasn’t buying it. “Well, there’s always this.” He leaned in and pressed his forehead against Julian’s. He dropped his hands and ensnared both of Julian’s.

The doctor wove their fingers together. He had no idea when Garak’s palms had gotten so warm. Or so welcoming. “Mm. Mm-hmm-hmm. All right, I’ve got a sense what this means.”

“Why don’t _you_ take a turn being quiet, Julian?”

Julian pressed in a little further. “Not my strong suit.”

“Well, not mine _either,_ dear.” As if anyone needed reminding. He sighed airily. “But you did bring me to a wetlands.”

“Ha! Is _that_ the thing, then?” He scrunched his nose, as if annoyed. He had known there was a trick. It wasn’t like Garak to simply snap shut. He leaned back, analyzing Garak’s expression with frank skepticism. “Let me take a stab in the dark here. Cardassian culture: swamps are for fucking.”

“No,” Garak teased. “My word, Julian, think, would you? If that were true, then don’t you think you’d have seen it referenced once or twice? We have gone over several romantic novels. Here I thought you were observant. … No, inviting me back to your _quarters_ is for fucking. Swamps are for _breeding._ ”

Julian’s brain could feel a few lesser-used gears tick.

Garak relinquished one of his hands and made a dismissive motion. “Rather grabs one by the—well. Seizes a certain something. Too _vulgar_ to describe, but… hard to resist.” He wagged a finger. “But there are conventions, you know. Traditionally, you aren’t to say a word. By then, the couple is supposed to have arrived at a certain… consensus. We Cardassians argue to _flirt_. It’s different to _mate._ ”

Julian glanced down and nervously stared at Garak’s still-dripping seam.

“Oh, for goodness’ sakes, I thought you were a _doctor._ You do realize I am male, don’t you? Had that escaped your awareness? Your translator acting up, dear?” He smoothed down a lock of smooth, black hair. “Besides, I’m just not ready to be a father. But let no one say there was any fault in the technique. The effort was made, and that's what counts.”

Julian wiped his face with his hand and released a shaky breath of relief.

Garak snorted.

“S-sorry, just. Something I’d rather we'd discussed.” (And spared him a small heart attack.)

“Well,” Garak reminded him, “Again, you’re the one who brought me to a swamp. By my standards, you already did. Unless it wasn’t quite to your liking?”

Julian grabbed him by the shoulders, giving them a quick—and effective—squeeze. “Let me just say you’ll be getting quite a few late-night invitations to my quarters.”

Garak purred softly. “Do turn up the thermostat when you do?”

“Let me put it this way, Elim,” he replied. “As soon as I get back, I’m turning it up, and I’m never turning it back down again as long as I live.”

He gifted Garak with a quick peck on the mouth.

“And there will be fresh sheets,” Julian promised sweetly. “And hot tea. And all the bloody chocolates you can stand.”

Garak rubbed his chin. “I see. And if I’m still there in the morning?”

“If you’re there in the morning? Elim, if you’re still there in the morning, then I’ll gladly do you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end.


End file.
